


Mercy[nary]

by Liquid_Sugar



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Gotham (TV), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Canon, BAMF Women, Barbara Gordon is Batgirl, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Gen, How Do I Tag, Moral Ambiguity, Rags to Riches, Secret Identity, Slow Romance, Strong Female Characters, Tim Drake is Robin, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 05:18:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7605067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquid_Sugar/pseuds/Liquid_Sugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You’re too gentle to belong to Gotham, Wonder Boy,</i> she will say one day.</p><p><i>And you’re too sweet to be a criminal, baby doll,</i> he will reply, tracing out the edges of her mask almost reverently- and she will trust him enough to move into him, because she knows that he will never unmask her unless she gives the word.</p><p><i>What can I say?</i> She will smirk. <i>I’m just good at being bad.</i></p><p><i>Ah, but you wear </i>good<i> so well,</i> he will say with the quirk of a smile.</p><p>-</p><p>After saving her from freezing to death as a young teenager and taking her on as an apprentice, Selina named her after the rarest commodity in Gotham. As a former street urchin and current jewel thief in training, Mercy isn't quite sure that she deserves to be named after a virtue. Gotham is no place for a hero. And yet, a charming vigilante who feels like sunshine at midnight and smells of vanilla becomes convinced that there is a kernel selfless good in her.</p><p>Things get complicated once Mercy starts to think she might want to believe him.</p><p>(There's also Wayne's eldest son, who she's fake dating as part of a plan to get their parents together, and who may or may not be said vigilante.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy[nary]

The night was brutally, bitterly cold, despite being so early into December. Snow was falling dense and relentless over the city, obscuring the fading light of the congealed-red skies, heavy enough not to be churned to slush underfoot on the busy streets; feathered white had begun to gather and blot out some of the city’s persistent grime, smothering the stench that clung to every brick and paving slab, replacing it with something sharp and clean, making the air as brittle and scentless as glass. It was the kind of unforgiving night that either demanded a miracle, or foretold death. Flakes of snow caught in her dark lashes and hair, curls tucked around her neck as a makeshift scarf, trapping heat, motes of ice sprinkling onto her shoulders like chips of diamond from the eaves above. She had taken shelter in a narrow alley, a chasm between buildings on the edge of a main road, exposed skin numb from the vicious bite of frost on the wind, her mind and blood slow with inaction, limbs stiff with the awkward position she held- crouched and huddled over, hovering on the balls of her feet, shivering and sharing warmth with the young stray cat tucked into her arms. She would have no choice but to move soon; it was either start walking or die of exposure, and she refused to do the latter. Even if she had to cut her fingers open and warm her fingers with her own blood to keep them deft- she had done that before- she would survive. She would get up and pick pockets on the brightly illuminated boulevards where Gotham’s high society spent their disposal incomes on gifts for the season, keep herself warm by running away if she got careless or clumsy with the cold.

She breathed out a billow of condensed white, tugging her jacket more firmly around the bundle of fur crowded against her front. The one shining advantage of the weather conditions was that she didn’t have to pour almost every last drop of focus into preventing sensory overload- winter was by far the kindest season to her heightened sense of smell, masking Gotham in monochrome ice. The caveat, of course, was that everything else was fifty times more difficult- climbing, stealing, running, bathing, sleeping- even breathing burned. If things got worse, she would have no choice but to turn herself over to an orphanage- which meant, most likely, being shunted off to juvie.

She had survived on the streets for three years by being swift and silent and elusive, with a little luck and intelligence and a healthy measure of distrust to augment it. In a concrete cage, it wouldn’t matter how unseen she made herself- they would eat her alive.

In retrospect, it was all her own fault. If she hadn’t wanted to test herself- but she couldn’t think like that. The mob was unpredictable and ruthless, varying by family in insignificant degrees. She hadn’t liked running their drugs around for them in the first place, and she knew perfectly well that they were underpaying her because they saw her as a desperate kid who needed the money, which was not untrue- getting out before they cut her off, disposed of her on a whim or tried to drag her in too deep was the smart thing to do. Stealing a brick of cash and a black butterfly knife she had coveted for months and getting away with it clean was a personal medal of honour, and she refused to regret that. She kept one step ahead of anyone hunting her, and hadn’t missed the money too much.

She hadn’t counted on such a cruel winter.

 _Stupid_.

But she wouldn’t go back to _that place_. She couldn’t risk going to the mob. She wouldn’t even think about turning up on the steps of a Gotham orphanage, not yet.

The cat in her arms gave her creaking meow, muffled in her painfully thin t-shirt. She reached up an unfeeling hand to skim a freezing fingertip over a creased velvet ear. 

_Okay. You have to get up now. You have to stand up and start walking or you’ll die. Come on- get up. Get. Up._

Forcing out a breath laced with silent self-encouragement, she began shifting a foot back, prepared to lose her balance the first time she tried to stand and fall back on the wall.

She had barely moved an inch when something was draped over her shoulders, her senses filling with the scent of an elegant, body-warmed perfume.

Her first insane thought was of a blanket, holding the residual heat of an open fire- a primal sense-memory of a life she had never lived- close second of a cruel hallucination, a warning that she was finally succumbing to hypothermia. In the same instant that both thoughts whipped through her mind, her head shot up and twisted around, spine stiffening, reaching for her knife.

The weight on her shoulders slipped. 

A long coat of fine leather was covering her, lined with satin and inundated with the fragrance of its owner. The instinct to snap and snarl and claw faded into bewilderment.

She heard the scrape of high heels on frozen asphalt, the floral notes intensifying as someone knelt in front of her. It was a woman- darkly dressed, elegant as her perfume, with ebony hair wreathed in snow and skin like caramel and almond-shaped green eyes, winged with perfect flicks of metallic gold and black liquid eyeliner. Her mouth was painted with a smooth, daring red lipstick that smelled phenomenal.

Somehow, the hallucination theory seemed more and more likely.

She stared up at the woman, unfazed on the surface and vibrating with raw panic inside, feeling like an emaciated, feral, skittish kitten gazing up at a panther- all while trying to work up enough energy and willpower to force her legs to support her, to run away, to disappear over dumpsters and up fire escapes to safety. Her body was deaf to her weak commands; her bones ached, and her muscles were taut with cold, and the woman had just dropped her own coat onto her shoulders.

She didn’t understand why, but something deeply entwined with blind survival instinct didn’t care.

“Now, what it is a gem like you doing out here in the cold?” The green-eyed woman asked with a bittersweet smile, tugging the coat more closely around her. There was something both reassuring and knowing veiled behind the words, accompanied by a spark of shrewdness in her expression.

Her vision splintered with inexplicable tears, melting the frost gathered on her lashes.

“Come on,” the woman urged softly. “Up you get.”

She was aware of being levered up by steady hands, unfolding herself from her hunched position as she rose on shaking legs, something cracking inside her even as the hardened part of her that had helped keep her alive and free for so long urged her to _run_ and _hide_ and never think twice. As the woman carefully took one of her arms and eased it through the heavy sleeve of the coat, the cat tucked into her jacket stirred, poking her head out of the zipped front cautiously.

The woman’s eyes glittered.

“Well, hello there, puss-cat. Keeping her warm, were you?” She reached out- her nails were neatly manicured, cut surprisingly short, lacquered with burgundy polish- and the cat touched her nose to the outstretched fingertips cautiously, ears folding back, before rubbing against the proffered hand and knuckles. “Good kitty.”

The vote of feline confidence was enough for desperation to oust the last stubborn shreds of distrust to the back of her mind. She was in no condition to fight or escape, anyway- at least not presently, being starved and frozen and half-dead. The green-eyed woman helped her slip her other arm through the sleeve and deftly buttoned the front, encasing her in warmth, and she found herself being steered out of the alley and out onto the bustling street, into a rush of wind and flurry of snow and scent of people passing by.

“What’s your name?” She heard the woman ask.

She unsealed her chapped, split and bleeding lips, the name that fell from them heavy.

“Diamond.”

“ _Diamond_. Okay- Diamond. My name is Selina. I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

 _Why?_ She wanted to ask. _What’s happening? Why are you doing this? This doesn’t make sense._

She almost stumbled, ankles tangling, and the woman caught her.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” she murmured, wrapping an arm around her protectively. “You’re safe.”

She knew better than to believe anyone who said that, but in that moment, she trusted her.

 

* * *

 

She woke up the next morning in the strangest circumstances: fed, warm, and curled on the plush sofa where the woman- _Selina_ \- had wrapped her up in a nest of cotton-cased pillows and a double-bed quilt. 

Gossamer curtains were half-drawn across the enormous windows, pale sunlight pouring across the hardwood floors and pooling brightly at every polished surface; the dark suede and black granite and thick rug that had been glazed with silver in the ambient light the night previous were tinted with ivory in the winter sunrise. The apartment was the penthouse suite at the crown of a glossy high-rise, with an open-plan layout lounge and kitchen that overlooked the cityscape through a series of panoramic windows, its coffee and ebony and vanilla décor and chic simplicity perfectly suited to the jade-eyed woman who had nudged her across its threshold encouragingly.

Despite the icy morning light, it was the subtle fragrance of wild roses that caught her attention first as her mind woke. She shifted, lashes fluttering as they opened over dark irises, and remembered with abrupt, surreal clarity the thunder of chrome waterfall taps, a frameless mirror fogging with steam, Selina perched on the edge of a tub in a vast white-tiled bathroom with the frosted-glass panels pulled back, her expensive heels kicked off, and Isis- the little black cat with peridot eyes who greeted them at the door with an inquisitive chirruping meow- rubbing against her calves as she ran a deep bath. She had simply sat, silent and watchful- until Selina had uncapped a purple bottle of bubble bath and its artificial fruit smell struck her, leaving her unthinkingly blurting it out. 

 _What a sharp nose. I bet that has got you into as much trouble as it’s got you out of_ , Selina had commented, the corners of her mouth coiling up like tendrils of incense. She had set to testing every designer-labelled bottle she owned for her reaction, from the floral to the silky, the spicy to the tangy, the bright to the woodsy, treating it almost like a game.

Her eyes had glazed over when she was offered one that was scented with what transpired to be wild roses. Selina’s eyes had gleamed with triumph as she retrieved a matching set of shampoo and conditioner before easing her into the tub, helping her scrub away dried sweat and dirt and body soil until red bloomed under dusky flesh and the water ran clear. Draining the bath, refilling it, and giving her a small glass dish holding a grit-specked cake of waxy soap that seemed to lock moisture into her winter-dried skin, Selina had massaged shampoo and conditioner into her scalp, running lather from root to tip patiently. After she had dunked her head under the water to wash it out for the fourth time, she had been startled to find lank greasy strands transformed into a silken curtain of dark red.

Her tresses were still combed and braided and pinned up where Selina had left them, wisps coming loose against the pillows, slightly damp and curling, sparking with threads of copper and rose-gold in the light. The delicate wild rose soap still lingered on her skin. The dark jersey of the pyjama set Selina had provided her with was still too big and more comfortable than anything she had ever owned in her life, cinched around her with the thin ribbon ties. Her long-supressed appetite had been stirred; Selina had cooked- beautifully seasoned steak that ran pink in the middle and potatoes tossed in garlic butter and garden peas, served with glass after glass of sunny orange juice that she was certain was the best thing she had ever tasted- and they had eaten together at the island breakfast bar, with Isis and her nameless stray feasting at their ankles. Selina had offered seconds, refilling her plate until exhaustion finally kicked in and she had collected her up, making a bed up for her on the sofa.

She looked up. The stack of her worn, street-stained clothes- freshly laundered and dried- were sitting on the coffee table.

She had woken up in the middle of the night to see them there, her butterfly knife resting on top of her folded jacket. The gesture was easy enough to translate: Selina was leaving the door open, letting her to leave whenever she wanted, even to sneak away in the dead of night. She had known that she should have. She had promised herself a few hours of stolen sleep in conditions that were undoubtedly the best she would ever see, unless she was ever stupid or desperate enough to be seduced into becoming a gangster’s moll- but when she had woken again in the darkness and reached for her knife, she found herself hesitating. And she had somehow fallen asleep again, soundly, knife held tight in her hand, like every night since she had stolen it, nestled under the thick quilt.

In the cold light of day, the sheath of the knife as supple under her grip, she wavered.

 _Get up and go. Just_ leave _. You have no idea who she is, why she’s doing this-_

_But why would she leave the knife?_

“Good morning.”

She unfurled herself and sat up warily, looking over the back of the sofa. Selina was in the kitchen, makeup wiped away and her cropped dark hair soft with sleep, a deep indigo silk robe draped over her shoulders. Iris was curling around her ankles, and her own stray tabby and white was mewling for scraps like a hopeful kitten, arched on the pads of her paws.

“Hungry? I was just about to make some breakfast,” Selina said, retrieving a skillet. “How do you like your eggs?”

She twisted her fingers together, thrown off guard by her inexplicable kindness and the casual way she carried it out.

“I have no idea.”

Selina only smiled, mouth curving up with a playful tilt of her head.

“Well, then- guess we’ll just have to find out together, hm?” 

After a moment of consideration, she carefully folded back the covers and joined Selina in the kitchen, discreetly slipping the black-sheathed knife into the waist of the pyjama bottoms.

“Orange juice?” Selina offered, setting a tall tumbler glass in front of her.

She nodded mutely, wrapping her arms around herself. 

A few days couldn’t hurt.

 

* * *

 

A few days turned into a week, and one week into three.

She expected Selina to call the nearest orphanage, and was constantly prepared to bolt the minute it happened.

The call never came. She didn’t know what to think of that.

They spent most days in the apartment, Selina letting her sleep late and stay up until dawn. She watched Selina from the window seat, back to the smooth pane of glass, joining her on the sofa when she switched on the news or some terrible made-for-television romance drama that she somehow got caught up in despite the saccharine dialogue. They sat at opposite ends of the long _L_ -shaped couch- her choice, cloistered in the left-hand corner- with the cats taking up the space between.

If Selina worked, she had flexible hours. Every time that she left the apartment- usually late morning, occasionally earlier or just a little past noon- she would ask her to make sure the cats were fed and tell her that she had left money, usually a few twenty dollar notes, in case she needed anything. For the first several times, she wondered if it was a test. She wandered around the apartment aimlessly, practicing with her butterfly knife, borrowing books from the shelves or switching on the television and settling on the window seat, staring out over Gotham, with Isis and Hera- the name given to the stray after a browsing session on Selina’s laptop- for company. Occasionally, she slipped quietly into Selina’s bedroom, sifting through the clothes in the walk-in wardrobe and open drawers full of jewel-bright makeup, toying with sparkling earrings like marbles and admiring her necklaces in the light, their monetary value somewhat abstract to her, like the idea of solid gold bars and zeroes in a bank account statement and a social class where there were still debutante balls. Everything went back exactly where she found it, although she was certain that Selina knew.

It was exactly eight restless days before she left the apartment. Noticing a grocery list chalked on the little blackboard hanging in the kitchen, she copied it down into a notepad, tore out the page and took the money from the magnet on the tall silver refrigerator. She took the spare key and a coat with a hood and the elevator down to the foyer, passed the doorman, and disappeared.

She spent over an hour circling Gotham, climbing up and out of the crowded streets- scaling looming buildings by narrow window ledges and fire escapes, vaulting fences and over deep ravines between clustered roofs, sprinting through the tattered shadows of alleys and underpasses, agile and tireless from only a week of rest and decent food, the cold air scouring out her lungs. She leapt through snowdrifts, scattering showers from looming snarling stone gargoyles weathered and oxidised with age, the skin of her bare hands almost sealing to metal and scraping on gravel and brick, light on her feet across ice and frost, the miasma of the city below her strong in her senses as she stalked along the brinks of rooftops, a hooded figure high above the grey and silver, touching the white iron sky. Windswept and invigorated, she climbed down, slid over an awning, navigated the traffic expertly and sought out the closest general store, picking up everything on the list and walking back to the apartment building with two paper bags full of the only food she had ever actually brought.

Selina was already there when she opened the door, bent over the island kitchen unit. She could swear that her expression melted from despondent to hopeful to a sunburst of relief within a second of her appearance.

“I got groceries,” she explained, suddenly embarrassed, stamping the snow from her boots as a distraction and nudging the door shut with her hip. “Um- sorry, I- guess I should have left a note.”

Selina got up and took one of the bags from her, and reached out to brush gentle fingertips across her chill-flushed cheek, light and fleeting.

“Welcome home,” she said, with feeling. 

 

* * *

 

The day before Christmas Eve, Selina took her out. 

They went out for brunch at a café that smelled strongly of ground coffee beans and pastry and tea and scrubbed wood, and then Selina took her shopping on Gotham Square. The mall was like what she imagined a ballroom to be if it was combined with an open marketplace and a thousand advertisement billboards, all glass-dome ceilings and multiple mezzanine floors and an amount of space that would have seemed wasteful if it wasn’t so busy. The open façades of the shops were trussed with trails of tinsel and metallic cardboard stars and fake snow-coated pine, glinting fairy lights and pasted snowflakes and sale offers, the smell of people and food and detergent and plastic and sugar almost overwhelming. She followed Selina’s perfume like a bright thread through the sensory sludge, alternating between honing in on the vibrant coil of rose-scented hair resting against her cheek and seeking out a singular smell from the chaos- melted chocolate, the tang of metal, an odd pungent spice that she couldn’t identify.

Selina led them purposefully from one clothes and apparel shop to the next, picking out garments from the racks with a discerning eye and holding them against her for size, asking her what she liked, seeming oddly pleased when she leaned towards simplicity and dark colours and efficient things that would last.

“That’s much better,” Selina announced with a gusty sigh, arms full of bags from both the designer stores and cheapest chain-outlets. “You needed some clothes that fit you properly.”

She paused, regretting her automatic acceptance of one of Selina’s loose-fitting cashmere sweaters that morning- _you’ll turn to solid ice in just that,_ Selina had insisted, _here- wear this. It’s breathable enough that you shouldn’t overheat once we get inside the mall_.

“Um. I think- they might actually be a little big,” she ventured haltingly. “Sorry- I should have said something earlier.”

“That’s the point, darling,” Selina replied easily, her steps sounding sharply thanks to her knee-high camel boots, complete with a thick two-inch heel that gave her stride a powerful snap; she had bought a similar pair for her in black, leather rather than suede, currently packed away in the sturdy, glossy bag she held in front of her, both hands wrapped around the satin rope-loop handles. “I chose a size or two up so that you can grow into them.”

She felt a twinge in her chest.

“Okay. But it feels a little- excessive.”

“Sweetheart, this is just your winter and autumn wardrobe,” Selina laughed, leading them out of the shopping centre floor and into the snow-blown plaza, her deep navy scarf and coat collar rippling in the wind. “We’ll have to go on another shopping jaunt in spring- not to mention the January sales.”

 _Spring_. So she was planning to let her stay for another few months, at least. She could work with that; when she was inevitably shipped off to the relevant authorities, she would be ready to start running again.

They dusted the thick layer of snow from the wooden-slat seat of a curved bench and sat down. Selina left her with the bags and returned swiftly with two tall polystyrene cups full of hot chocolate, a candy cane slotted into the cardboard holders on the sides, a red satin bow tied at their crooks.

“How do you feel about trying skating?” Selina asked, lounging back and watching winter-bundled figures mill on the nearby open-air ice rink, the barriers strung with coloured plastic lanterns. “It could be fun. Not today, obviously, with the bags- but tomorrow? What do you think?”

She glanced up over the rim of her hot chocolate, through her lashes. “Okay. Sure.”

Selina turned back to her, a slight crease forming between her eyebrows in an expression that she identified as concern.

“Something on your mind, little cat?”

She considered lying, or brushing the question off.

“Yes,” she said truthfully, staring at the insulated cup between her hands; over just three short weeks, her skin was smooth and supple, the cracks from the constant chill finally healing into angry dashes of pink against cool brown. “I’m- wondering when you’re going to get bored of me. I’m wondering when you’re going to consider your duty done and call up the authorities to take me. I’m wondering how you noticed me when I have survived by being invisible on the streets for years and why you would even pick me and why you’re letting me stay and why you would burden yourself with me when-”

Selina caught her chin and turned her face towards her, her green irises soft and solemn.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, the words breathed out in a swirl of warm, crystallised vapour. “I didn’t realise- I should have understood- I should have done more to reassure you- but I thought it would only make you doubt me more.”

“Just- please tell me _why_ ,” she said, slightly desperate. “I don’t understand.”

Selina looked at her deeply, unblinking, and she gazed back searchingly.

“Someone once told me that _the one who saves a single life saves the world entire_. I’m not sure if I believe that, but- I do know that mercy is the rarest jewel in all of Gotham City,” Selina said with a wry smile. “And since I’m selfish, I chose to save the life of someone I saw a few shades of myself in.” Her gaze glinted, her expression fiercely sincere as she took her hand. “A survivor. Someone who refuses to lie down and die. The kind of person who gets kicked in the teeth by life and turns around and punches life in the gut. That’s why. I saved you because I want you to _live_.”

“But you could have just called up one of the orphanages-”

“I’m not giving you away now,” Selina interrupted. “You can leave any time you want- I won’t stop you- but if they want to take you from me, I’ll scratch their eyes out.”

She blinked, realisation melting through her.

“You- you want me,” she said blankly.

“Of _course_ I want you,” Selina said, fondly exasperated as she dipped her head to catch her eyes. “I’ve been holding back from spoiling you rotten in an attempt to make you stay! Strays like us- we choose our homes. I didn’t want to pressure you into staying if it’s not what you wanted.”

Her vision was blurring. “Y-you _want_ me,” she repeated helplessly.

_I’m just a kid you scraped out of the gutter, and-_

“Anyone who doesn’t has irredeemably terrible taste,” Selina retorted contemptuously.

The thought was still thawing- _she wants me to stay, she wants me to_ stay _, she_ wants _me to stay_ \- but she held onto it like an anchor, grounding her and locking her into a reality that had suddenly been shattered and reconstructed beneath her fingertips.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she sniffed.

“I- really would like to try skating.”

Selina leaned forwards and kissed her forehead, swiping away the tear with the pad of her thumb.

“Then I _promise_ we will.”

 

* * *

 

Selina kept her promise. They went skating the next day, gripping each other’s hands for support until they found their balance and were gliding with a hiss of blades past the other skaters clinging to the barrier, wind cutting past them, overplayed schmaltzy Christmas anthems blasting overhead. Selina left the ice first and caught her when she skated up to meet her just a little too fast, both of them laughing and aching with exertion. 

They spent the twenty-fifth curled up on the sofa under a quilt with contented cats and mushroom and pepperoni and olive-topped pizza and popcorn and hot chocolate for company, watching all of the holiday classics that she had only ever heard of in passing.

She had sneaked over to tentatively rest her head on Selina’s shoulder- who had immediately lifted her arm and pulled her closer, settling her cheek atop her head comfortably- when Selina pulled out a long, narrow gift bag, sparkling gold and sealed at the top with tape.

“Happy holidays,” Selina said by way of explanation, an anticipatory glint in her gaze as she watched her accept the surprisingly heavy bag. “Only one gift, I’m afraid, gemstone, but I plan on getting you a mountain next year- and a tree to put them under. A real one, I was thinking, so that the place will smell of pine.”

 _Next year_. She hid a thrill of cautious happiness by carefully peeling open the bag.

Inside was a tall bottle of fine Irish whiskey, dark green glass with a parchment-hued label, and a shop-written customised message carefully written on the side in looping white script.

_To keep until your 21st birthday- here’s to Mercy, the rarest jewel in Gotham! Love, Selena xxx_

“They clearly didn’t listen to my instructions on the spelling of my name- and why they capitalised _mercy_ , I have no idea- but I think the sentiment is still fairly clear,” Selina concluded casually.

With shaking hands, she set the bag and bottle aside before throwing her arms around Selina, pressing her face into the crook of her neck.

Selina laughed affectionately, and curled both arms around her.

 

* * *

 

Slowly, like the shifting of clouds, things changed. 

The _spare room_ became _her room_.

The _apartment_ became _home_.

 _Diamond_ became _darling_ , _kit-cat_ , _little cat_ , _gemstone_ , _darling girl_ , _kitten_.

 _Selina_ was always _Selina_. But then, one night, she woke up to find her missing and the windows of the master bedroom unlocked and ajar. She swung herself onto the rooftop, crouched behind a vent with her butterfly knife unsheathed, and then- with the crack of a whip and a graceful figure slipping through the floor-length windows of the master bedroom- _Selina_ also became _Catwoman_.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she mentioned over breakfast the next morning, Hera coiling around her ankles on the pads of her white paws, purring like well-tuned engine.

 _Le temps passé avec des chats est jamais perdu_ , she thought with amusement, nudging her foot against Hera’s flank affectionately.

“Won’t tell anyone what?” Selina asked, distractedly, leaning over the breakfast bar to fill her cup with peppermint tea from the small silver stove-pot.

She simply gazed up at her evenly, fork hovering where it was mopping up smears of maple syrup with a slice of pancake.

Selina blinked back of the rim of her mug, and lowered her coffee.

“I should have known that you would find out for yourself,” Selina said with a wry, resigned smile, leaning across the bar on her elbows. “I can’t say I’m not glad. I was agonising for weeks over how I should tell you- and I had absolutely _no_ idea how to ask if you would consider letting me train you- but this gives me the ideal opening.”

“Like I said,” she said, taking a draught of peppermint tea, “I won’t te- w-wait, _what_?”

Selina chuckled silently. “Is it so surprising I’d want to let you in on this? I knew I could never keep it a secret from you forever, and I didn’t want to. And the thought of your potential going to waste is-” The line of her mouth hardened. “You’re easily underestimated. People mistake you for weak or delicate, but there’s a snap in your spirit and a taste for danger and an instinct for survival that people don’t see under the quietness. You’re stealthy, you’re clever, you’re quick, and with hard work and some polishing- admittedly, I’m hardly in the market for a _sidekick_ , but I think I can make an exception for an apprentice. It would be the best way for you to learn the trade. Even if you decide not to go into the business, it’s good to have a transferable skill. What do you think?”

She was barely keeping a grip on her fork.

She was offering to teach her how to transmute herself into shadow- a wraith- elusive and sinuous as smoke, deft and sharp as steel, unreal as liquid darkness.

“Do I still have to go to school?”

“Yes,” Selina said firmly, stroking Isis as she leapt up onto the stool next to her, settling into the seat. “You need an education, and I have the means to give you a very good one. Besides- you’re bright. You’ll love school. Or at least, you’ll love learning, and you need to meet people your own age,” she said, gathering a bite of pancake onto her fork. “You’re starting school in the fall, no arguments.”

“But you’ll still train me.”

Selina held her mug aloft in one hand, elbow resting on the granite worktop, a pleased smile curling across her face. “If you like. You’re taking self-defence classes one way or the other. But I’m guessing that this is a yes?”

“I’ll need an outfit,” she replied, “and a name.”

“Training first,” Selina replied, unyielding but still smiling. “And steady grades. Then and only then will we think about getting you measured, little cat.”

  

* * *

 

 _Kyle, Alice Mercy._  

She traced a fingertip under the name printed in block capitals on the form, the knuckles of her other hand pressed to her mouth, icy air conditioning fluttering across her arms and bared shoulder blades and calves. The smell of high summer and people pressed against the heightened sense that made her feel like an animal or a hunter every time she stepped out of the door: she detected heady pollen blowing in from the open doors, the musk of sweat and evaporating perfumes and colognes, fresh paper and ink, unfinished lunches congealing in the heat and the antiseptic liquid they used to clean the marble floors. She forced the constant stream of olfactory information into her periphery.

“ _Mercy_?” She asked, with a twitch of her eyebrow, her hair sun-bleached to the colour of new blood and braided and pinned up off the nape of her neck, her freshly-cut fringe coming loose.

Selina was lounging against the edge of the curved wooden desk like a cat, ochre complexion and ebony hair complemented by a light summer dress and heeled sandals, exuding the scents of iced coffee and cosmetics, a sting of spearmint gum and an elegant perfume that, by now, she could have tracked through a crowded room or the slums of the Narrows, running water or sewage or the coldest of winter nights.

“I thought it would be appropriate,” Selina replied, watchful and considering. “Especially after the misspelling of message on that bottle- they must have thought that it was your name. Of course, we could always choose something different; I was very tempted by _Hunter_ for a while. Or- I know you said no gem names, but you love mythology, so-”

She shook her head. “No, it- has a good ring to it,” she said, looking back down at the papers. “ _Mercy Kyle_.”

“Mercy,” Selina echoed deliberately, holding a pen aloft. “Shall I sign?”

With a deep, soundless breath, she slid the papers towards her legal guardian expressionlessly.

Selina flashed a bright smile and began signing with a flourish, flipping through the many layers of the forms to mark her initials.

“Well, then,” she announced with a final flick of the nib of the pen. “It is official.”

Unable to resist any longer, _Alice Mercy Kyle_ melted breathlessly, covering the evidence of her relief and elation with one hand over her mouth.

“So, how shall we celebrate the eve of your birthday?” Selina continued. “Retail therapy, ice cream, lunch on the pier, beach day, spa day, a trip to the Amusement Mile, or all of the above-?”

“Wait, my _birthday_?” Thinking quickly, Mercy checked the registered date of birth printed on the forms: _July 4_. “Oh, you did _not_ -”

“Did you expect anything less of me, kit-cat?” Selina replied with a playful arch of her eyebrow, handing the paperwork over to the heat-drugged admin worker behind the desk and steering Mercy away. “Come on. Let’s enjoy the summer before you start at school.”

The corners of Mercy’s mouth sharpened into a smile. “I suppose I’ll need another name soon.”

“Mm, not _that_ soon. No heists until you’re seventeen.”

“That’s three years away!”

“Plenty of time to start thinking of names them,” Selina said with a blasé flick of her wrist as they emerged into the blazing light and heat of the midday sun. “Who knows? Work hard and I might just let you out to play early.”


End file.
